Blood and Roses
by mylo-tus17
Summary: A not-so innocent Ginny meets up with a slightly-frustrated Draco under odd circumstances.
1. Boy Meets Girl

The plot and all characters unlisted in J.K. Rowling's books belong to me; everything else belongs to her, as I'm sure you already know. I did my best to keep Malfoy in character. Any criticism? Please feel free, so long as you're specific.  
  
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Draco Malfoy gave a languid stretch, his pale arms reaching towards the sky-ceiling of the Great Hall. It was a Saturday in the late fall of his sixth year, shortly before Halloween, and a non-Hogsmeade weekend; they had become increasingly sparse due to the Death Eater attacks.  
  
He smirked at that thought. He suspected that a teacher or two was going to take him aside and attempt to con some information out of him--because surely the baby Malfoy would have a few tidbits to glean and pass along to His Weirdness, Albus Dumbledore? Heh. They would be sorely disappointed.  
  
After nodding once to his classmates, he rose from his chair. He wanted to get in a bath (the Prefect bathrooms were so much more satisfactory than the old ones, if girlish in some aspects) before the night was over.   
  
He strode towards the exit, expensive boots clicking their heels on the tile floor.   
  
"Mister Malfoy?" Professor Snape inquired in a dubious tone, looking up from the teacher's table and most likely wondering where his star pupil was headed.  
  
"I don't feel so well, Professor," he said in a plaintive voice, "May I go back to the Slytherin quarters?"  
  
He saw the Professor hesitate before nodding in acquiesce.  
  
Draco Malfoy smiled and neatly, quietly, calmly exited the Great Hall and began the trek towards the Prefect bathrooms.  
  
It was almost expected that he, along with a select few other sixth years, would become a prefect; one, he was a Malfoy. The name did still hold some prestige, even in this muggle-infested world.   
  
He passed a few portraits of no interest that gazed at him with knowing eyes. He didn't bother looking back; they were all boring old ghosts locked in paint and velvet.   
  
"Mobiliarus," he said lazily, watching the portrait swing open to allow him entrance to the bathroom. He stepped in and moved aside quickly as to avoid being smacked by the portrait, which apparently didn't like him much.  
  
Almost instantly after, he could tell that something was wrong. Firstly, the towels had been stacked up to obscure someone -- something? in the pool. Most likely a female, judging by the airy, flowery scent in the air. But .. why wouldn't the portrait have been sealed, if there was already an occupant?  
  
"Hello?" He asked cautiously, hand going to his robes to retrieve his wand, just in case someone snuck up on him.   
  
No response. He carefully toppled the barrier of towels ... and had to stifle a shout at what he saw.  
  
There, in the pool of water, was the youngest Weasley's limp body, at the very shallow end of the bath. The entire pool was tainted very faintly by the copious amounts of blood streaming from her mutilated wrists, like melted rose petals coloring the water. He could just barely see the rise and fall of her ribcage beneath thin white skin. Alive.  
  
After a moment, he composed himself and reached down to grab her by her shoulders and pull her out of the water. Going to an authority was out of the question; there was no telling what those idiots might say about him finding her like this. She wasn't naked, at least, but wore a pair of lacy black panties and a matching camisole. He was perturbed at himself for noticing, but the youngest Weasley wasn't quite so young anymore; she'd acquired a figure. He noticed an odd circular scar -- a brand, almost -- on the inside of one of her thighs.   
  
He shook himself free of all bizarre notations of the girl's body, yanking her wet, nearly weightless (she couldn't have been more than a couple inches over five feet tall) form out of the water and onto the towels. She was still bleeding, but not so much; he guessed maybe the water had helped, but she was white-pale, the color of frost.   
  
Her hair was the same color as the blood, the same slightly glimmering dark sanguine hue. Not like fire; like life.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, Weasel?" he muttered. She made no movement, nor did she indicate that she had heard him; however, her eyelashes fluttered slightly. Good sign, he thought, she's not completely comatose. Meanwhile ..  
  
The bleeding had stopped, most likely from the pressure of the air, but he still conjured spellotape with a mutter and wave of his wand, while binding a towel to each of her wrists. Bizarre, but effective, he decided, even though healing isn't my forte, although I've heard through the grapevine that she's not bad at it.   
  
Now that she wasn't not bleeding anymore -- the towels were the same pristine white --he sat back and allowed himself to wonder what made her do it. She was obviously trying to kill herself; and would have succeeded had he not come along .. That made him wonder, too, actually. He really had no need to do anything; he could have simply left and allowed her to die. It wouldn't have been a problem for him.  
  
Maybe it was because she looked like a broken doll, all red hair and pale skin and bruised, towel-bound wrists and impossibly full lips. Porcelain indeed; he could spot faded freckles on her skin, although not half as severe as her brothers'. They mainly dusted the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.  
  
He wondered, idly, what he should do. Leave her here? No, that would never do. He decided, after much pause, that he should bring her up to his room. He had after much pestering and sulking, finally been allowed to have his own private quarters -- there was a fee, but his father of course could pay that. It was simply a matter of making the old man believe he was worthy, and that wasn't difficult.  
  
Everyone should still be at the Great Hall, he figured, so he scooped her up in his arms, marvelling at the weightlessness of her. She must never eat, he thought, nudging the portrait open and beginning to stride down towards the Slytherin Commons. Luckily, they weren't too far from the bathrooms, and nobody bothered him.  
  
"Chocolate frog," he informed the portrait that led to the Slytherin commons and ultimately his private quarters, ignoring the expression that its subject gave him. He stepped inside and carried Ginny Weasley's limp frame up the stairs, nudging the second dent in the wall near the bottom. It wriggled and abruptly grew to become a large, circular white door. She shifted briefly in his arms while he opened the door -- nearly knocking her head against the wall beside it -- and he prayed she wouldn't wake up.  
  
Hell, what had brought the idea into his head to BRING her here anyway? He kept asking himself that, and yet soon he had dropped her unceremoniously on his four-poster bed.   
  
Blood loss would be a problem. Red blood cells multiplied quickly, thank God, but no doubt she'd sleep for a while before then. And how was he going to get her to eat, etcetera? Maybe she'd wake up before then. She hadn't lost enough blood yet to need a blood transfusion ..  
  
He leaned against the green walls of his bedroom, sighing with frustration at the sudden, unpleasant turn his life had taken. A brief frown marred his features as he made a study of hers, noting that the bone basket of her rib and the jutting blades of her hips were prominent, maybe a bit too prominent. She was probably starving herself to avoid becoming a fat old housewife like her mother.  
  
No, that wouldn't be it. She had her father's frame and mother's height; leggy and frail, short and a little bit chesty. On her it looked like a slightly top-heavy gazelle, like ghosts settled into her arms and legs. He tried to remember the last time he'd spoken to her. Second year? Shit, that was a long time ago. He was about a foot taller, although he seriously doubted that she'd grown at all, in terms of height.   
  
His eyes widened briefly as her eyelids fluttered and then opened. She had honey-colored eyes, like firelit gold. They did not at first register her surroundings; she seemed more confused at the pain in her wrists and the weakness she felt.  
  
And then she was coughing a little, and then she saw him. And understood.  
  
"Oh, fuck me," she sighed, relaxing onto the bed again.  
  
"Haven't done that yet, Weasley," he quipped, "But if you're offering .. "  
  
"Har de *fucking* har, ferret boy," she muttered wearily.   
  
Now that he was sure that she wasn't going to die, he could be as snide as he pleased. And that little comment incited a gentle flush in his pale cheeks. Were people still calling him that? It had been two years ago, for heaven's sake ..  
  
She wasn't looking at him. Instead she was thinking about that awful throbbing ache in her wrists that felt like halves of her heart were contained in each skinny little bone. If she'd known it hurt so much to die, she wouldn't have tried it. And fucking Malfoy came along with his coiffure and black suit. Why the hell had he saved her?  
  
"I didn't touch you, if that's what you're thinking," he said aloud, purposely looking at the ceiling to give the deliberate air of nonchalance, "Your hymen should still be intact."  
  
She laughed a little at that, perturbing him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"If it were suddenly intact again, I would be very confused indeed." She was snickering at him. Her. Bloody Weasley with her medium curls and towels on her wrists. After he'd just saved her life. She wasn't a virgin. Well, screw her; she could bang half the school for all he cared.  
  
"Mummy and daddy would be awfully upset to hear that, wouldn't they?" He smirked at her, rising from his comfortable lean against the wall and moving to stand near his bed where she was sprawled. She didn't seem uncomfortable with her state of undress; but then, she was showing less than the average bikini.  
  
"Probably," she said amiably, "Although I think they'd be more ticked to hear that I'm half-naked in Draco Malfoy's bed, but it's all relative. Why did you help me?"  
  
"I would prefer not bathing in the place where somebody had died. I'll ask the questions, thank you," he said coolly, suddenly remembering to be menacing.   
  
"Shoot," she chirped to mask the incredible weakness that she felt all over her limbs and body, and that excruciating ache in her wrists.  
  
"Why'd you do it? And how did you get the password to the Prefect's bathrooms?"  
  
"It's a very long, complicated story that I really do not feel compelled to tell to my big brother's mortal enemy. As for the password .. Hermione?"  
  
"Of course. Granger is a Prefect," he said disgustedly. Girl just had to be top in everything -- during sex, too, most likely -- or her bushy head would probably explode.  
  
"No shit, sherlock. Anyway, to answer any remaining questions, I slit my wrists with my nails," she displayed her manicured, black-painted nails for him, smiling with barbaric amusement at his widening eyes, "And gulped a couple sleeping pills to knock myself out. Now, why did you bring me *here* in lieu of yelling for Pomfrey and showering elsewhere?"  
  
"I'm not sure," he said after a moment's hesitation, "I thought it was because they'd believe I did it."  
  
She chose not to answer that, instead saying, "I need clothing. Muggle clothing."  
  
"Why?" He demanded almost immediately, "You and those two other girls are always dressing up in weird slutty clothes, and I can't understand why."  
  
"Firstly, you better watch what you say about Cherie -- she's in your House. Secondly, they're not slutty. Wizard's robes are too confining," she spoke as if reciting something committed to memory.  
  
"And Muggle clothes are trashy," he sniped, shaking his head. Why had he even bothered with this girl? She was foul-mouthed, apparently promiscuous, and seriously mentally disturbed -- she'd just tried to kill herself in a bathtub and here he was, having a verbal sparring match with her! The ridiculousness of the situation hit them simultaneously, and they simply gazed at each other for a few moments in silence.  
  
Finally, she spoke.  
  
"Go to the fifth year girls' quarters .. the third bed from the right is Cherie's," she didn't bother elaborating on how she had gotten into the Slytherin girl's quarters, "Take out her green and black striped shirt. There should be a pair of size four Earl jeans -- talls -- that I left there. I'll go barefoot; those jeans are long enough to cover my feet."  
  
He was rather taken aback by the sudden cool commanding note that had come into her voice, but saw that it was sensible (and inwardly he was kind of amused at her specifications of the clothing brands), so he slipped out of the door to retrieve the clothing.  
  
Once he was gone, she let out a soft groan of exasperation and pain. Fucking Malfoy. Fucking wrists. Well, fuck it. She'd just bandage her wrists.   
  
She had the sudden desire to scream, but decided that wouldn't be a good idea, especially since Malfoy would wonder what the hell was wrong with her. Okay, he already wondered what the hell was wrong with her but she didn't want to give him any more incentive.  
  
He'd returned already, with some other things and the clothing -- bandages for her wrists, it looked like.   
  
"Are you dry yet?" He ignored the fact that she too weak to sit up, much less dress herself. She'd have to tough it out; he had dealt with her weirdness for long enough.   
  
She nodded and reached for the bandages, but he shook his head.  
  
"You can't do this by yourself. Hold out your arms," he ordered, and she obeyed, struggling to a sitting position after a few moments of fidgeting.   
  
He sat down next to her and pulled the towels and spellotape off roughly; she cringed but said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Truth be told, he wouldn't get any satisfaction from it, but she didn't know that. After a moment, he rubbed an ointment as gently as his nature would allow over the sore and still open wounds to close them (they would scar no matter what, even Madam Pomfrey would have troubles with these gashes), and began to attach the bandages.   
  
She was watching him with a slightly bemused air, but he was intent on his work and thus didn't notice until he'd finished the job.  
  
"What?" He inquired, voice coming out a little more soft than he'd intended.   
  
"Nothing. Can I get dressed now?"  
  
"Go ahead," he said dryly, brought back to reality by the agitation in her voice. Weasley wants to hate me that much, fine, he thought, That's the last time I do a favor for one of her kind.  
  
She didn't have any trouble sliding into the jeans, despite the fact that they were pretty damn snug until her knees (where they flared out sharply). But the shirt gave her a little trouble; she had it over her head, but was having problems bending her arms to peel it over her camisole. He watched a moment, and then sighed and leaned forward, reaching underneath the hem of the long-sleeved shirt and pulling it down to her waist. Inadvertently, his hand brushed her breasts and she gave him a look. He knew what she was thinking: 'Well, Mister Malfoy saved my life, so I guess he thinks it's okay to cop a feel. Well, whatever.' As if he'd ever touch this girl--there were dozens of more suitable women on the Hogwarts grounds.  
  
She didn't respond, tossing her auburn hair so it nearly hit him in the face and drawing to a stand. He could see the straps of her camisole due to the wide neck of the shirt.  
  
"Will your housemates be back yet?"   
  
"You have a couple minutes. Just get away from my door; I don't want anyone to see you." He kept his tone brusque, but he was inwardly very unsettled by this strange girl and her cut up skin.  
  
"Hurrah, something we agree on." She went to the door and opened it, pausing momentarily before stepping through.  
  
"Oh, and Malfoy?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Thanks," she said, softly shutting the door behind her. 


	2. Boy Is Crazy

Same as before; things get a bit more interesting in this chapter.   
  
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Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley did not see each other for at least three weeks after their incident at the baths. Well, they did not speak anyway; Ginny often caught Draco casting curious glances in her direction, as if expecting her to suddenly attack herself with a butter knife. She rewarded these glances with funny faces, which effectively embarassed him and meant he stopped staring for the remainder of that evening.  
  
One night at dinner, Ginny's best friends Cherie Sanford and Tonya Jackson also noticed the looks Malfoy was shooting in their direction -- more specifically, Ginny's. Cherie was a Slytherin, but mostly everyone had given up on disciplining her, most just muttering 'American' under their breath and letting her be. Boys noticed her, but all but the most self-assured were usually frightened off by her demeanor. Tonya was muggle-born and a year their junior, but taller than both of them.  
  
"He keeps looking over here," Cherie said, catching Draco's eye and smirking at him. He was unnerved and returned to his one-sided conversation with the human pits that were Crabbe and Goyle.  
  
"Yeah, how come?" Tonya inquired, pushing a strand of dyed, honey blonde hair away from her dark skinned features.   
  
"How should I know?" Ginny shrugged her shoulders, delicately biting into a chocolate chip cookie.   
  
"Well, I don't know," Cherie tilted her head to one side, studying Ginny, "Your brother fights wtih him all the time and I try to avoid him .. "  
  
"Actually," Lee Jordan, a seventh year whom Cherie had a rather awful crush on but refused to pursue, saying that house differences would cause problems, spoke up, "He probably avoids you."  
  
"That's very flattering, Jordan, thank you," Cherie snapped, tossing her dark hair.  
  
"No, I meant--" he started to say something, but Cherie'd turned away. He sighed and looked at Ginny for assistance. Ginny settled on kicking Cherie on the table. Her friend's moods were too weird.  
  
"Che*rie*," Tonya hissed, narrowing her eyes. She always got impatient with Cherie, since the girl was usually so outgoing when it came to any other boy -- the ones she didn't like much.  
  
Exhaling melodramatically, Cherie turned and cocked one thin brow at Lee.  
  
"You were saying?" She queried, keeping her tone mild.  
  
"Everyone knows Malfoy has a thing about anyone who isn't pureblood, British, and a supporter." They all knew what he meant by 'supporter.' "You're only one of the three, and plus you threatened to tear off his balls and shove them through his eye sockets that one time."  
  
"Oh yeah .. " Cherie smiled to herself, remembering.   
  
"What?" Ginny yelped, nearly falling off her chair with laughter, "When did this happen and why did I not hear about it?"  
  
"Okay, I was late for class .. "  
  
Across the hall, Draco was again watching the crowd. His eyes narrowed as Lee Jordan came into the picture, wondering exactly what a seventh year wanted with a four year and two fifth years. He doubted Jordan was asking either Cherie or the tall black girl out, so that left Ginny. Well, she'd soon discover what a dog Jordan was; he'd brag about his bedroom exploits to anyone.   
  
He wasn't sure why he was so bothered by Jordan liking this Weasley girl; perhaps he felt some sort of protectiveness towards her. She didn't act or seem delicate, but something in her life must be very, very wrong for her to have tried to kill herself. He wasn't usually given to those sort of feelings, but perhaps it was like filling the little sister void.  
  
Yes, that must be it.  
  
His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a hand lightly laid upon his shoulder. He twisted slightly, slowly, to see who it was.  
  
Pansy Parkinson. The strawberry blonde tossed her hair and gave him a none-too-pretty smile.  
  
"Yes?" He inquired, and unlike Cherie, he made no effort to keep his tone polite.  
  
"You've been acting weird these past few weeks," she informed him, settling down into the empty chair by his side.  
  
"I've got a lot on my mind." He refused to look directly at her, afraid that eye contact would keep her there even longer.  
  
"You don't have time for me any more, it's like I hardly ever see you," she was starting to whine. He inwardly cringed. Conversations with Pansy always were like this. She'd start out fairly normal, and then get whinier, and noisier, and then if it was really bad she'd start crying.  
  
"What a pity," he said, rising from his chair. Pansy stared at him.  
  
"Dra*co*," she wailed, voice hitting a high note. His temper snapped.  
  
"Pansy, SHUT UP!" he hollered, pushing in his chair noisily. Heads turned to stare at him, including Ginny Weasley's.  
  
He stalked out of the hall, massaging his temples. Once he'd escaped the confines of the Hall, he sank to a lean against a wall. Usually he didn't flip out on Pansy like that; she was annoying, but he'd been so *edgy* lately. Ever since that goddamned Weasley girl.  
  
Ginny Weasley quietly excused herself from her table and left the Great Hall. Her friends had no clue she was looking for Malfoy; why would they? She'd never had any desire to communicate with him before.  
  
She spotted him leaning against a wall and went to stand before him, watching him silently. His eyes were closed, but he knew she was there. She had an odd scent to her--vanilla and cinnamon, possibly due to her overweight mother's cooking--that no other girl in Hogwarts would keep. They all prefered flowery or fruity smells.  
  
"Are you all right?" She asked lightly, not sure why she cared.  
  
"Yes. That dog who thinks she's my girlfriend is getting on my nerves, that's all," he snapped, opening his eyes and taking in her apparel. Today it was a pair of dark jean shorts, very short, a snug red blouse with a black tie, long wristbands he suspected to be the remains of argyle socks -- to cover the bandages, most likely -- and knee-high vinyl combat boots. She noticed him staring and crossed her arms over her chest hastily.  
  
There was a long moment of silence.  
  
"Did you put a spell on me?" He queried, soft tone not quite masking the cool menace in his voice and eyes.  
  
"What?" She stared, "No! When would I have done that?" She seemed perplexed and angry that he would accuse her of such a thing, but more perplexed than anything else.   
  
"You know when."  
  
"No, I didn't. Do you honestly think I could've done anything like that?" Her voice was scornful and he saw the truth in that, sighing.  
  
"Then what the hell is wrong with me?"  
  
"I don't know. What are your symptoms?"  
  
"I can't get you out of my head. It's so fucking irritating. I'll be messing around with some girl--and, wham, you face pops into my mind. I almost said your name a couple nights ago with Blaise!" He was losing his temper again, but with himself--he shouldn't be telling her this, but then, it shouldn't be happening, either.  
  
"Are you saying you've developed some sort of .. " She seemed to be searching for an appropriate word, "Crush on *me* of all people?"  
  
"Yes! No," he exhaled, curling up his fingers into fists and relaxing them again, "It's worse than that."  
  
She just looked at him, arms still folded over her chest, ambrey eyes searching his for the truth as if she suspected him of lying, or making fun of her. His eyes, however, were drawn to her mouth--she had exceptionally perfect lips, he realized, a tiny smirk tugging at his features.  
  
"What are you smiling at?" She asked warily, stepping to the side of him. This gave him perfect opportunity to spin around and push her lightly against the wall, hips pressing gently against hers. He wasn't more than two or three inches taller than her and it made things perfect. He was five-six and she maybe five-three or five-four.   
  
"Malfoy," she breathed, only getting that out before he kissed her. It wasn't the delicate, almost chaste kiss she'd been given by Harry Potter the year prior, nor was it the inexperienced fumble of all her other boyfriends. He was demanding, skilled and dominating, and she could do nothing but return the gesture, fingertips going to touch the chiseled bone of his jaw. There was an almost gentle edge to his kiss, as if he was taking what he wanted but being sure to make it fun for both parties. Before things could get much further, though, they were interrupted by a bellowing voice.  
  
"GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER, YOU PIG!"  
  
Slowly, almost guiltily, Malfoy brought his face back from Ginny's as they turned to see who it was. His hands remained -- protectively? she wondered -- on her hips, but he was no longer crushing her against the wall.  
  
Standing before the pair, ears a shade of crimson that could only be found in Ginny's hair, eyes wide and deep voice nearly growling, was Ronald Weasley. 


	3. Boy Avoids Death

Oh, wow. I feel so loved. Thanks to: Nupil, cosmoz, stormyfire (times two), Draco & Ginny forever! (times two), Jin, cherries, Ace of Spades, Lucius, Milkyweed, Sarah, and ditzy spacecadet. This is the first time I've actually gotten reviews on a story, so it's wonderful. The reviews on Babylon were mostly a byproduct of this fic, I think.  
  
---  
  
Take this pink ribbon off my eyes  
I'm exposed, and it's no big surprise  
Don't you think I know exactly where I stand?  
This world is forcing me to hold your hand  
Cause I'm just a girl, oh little old me  
Well, don't let me out of your sight  
I'm just girl, all pretty and petite  
So don't let me have any rights  
Oh, I've had it up to here ..  
"Just A Girl" - No Doubt  
  
---  
  
"R-Ron!" Ginny stammered, shoving Draco away gracelessly. He would have yelled at her for it, but was too busy wondering what the angry red-headed boy was going to do to him. He suddenly realized how very tall Ron was, and cowered appropriately.  
  
"Ron, I can explain .."   
  
"No," Ron fumed, "You can't." He easily reached out and snatched Draco by the robesfront, lifting the smaller boy up a few inches from the ground and slamming him against the nearest wall. Draco was fairly sure his skull had cracked and that he would soon be splattering the Weasleys with brains and blood.  
  
However, he was saved from a gory and no doubt embarassing fate by the quick-thinking Ginny.  
  
"STUPIFY!!" She shouted, waving her wand at Ron. The spell hit him immediately and he fell over with a dull thump. Draco fell over, too, because Ron's hands were still clutching his robesfront. He cautiously disentangled himself, brushing any lint off his robes that may have gathered there.  
  
"Thanks," he muttered, beginning to stride off down the hall as if nothing had happened. Ginny stared.  
  
"You asshole!" She ran after him, combat boots thumping noisily on the hall floors. She grabbed him by the shoulder, "You should at least have the decency to talk to me and tell me why you MAULED me!"   
  
She was glaring at him, he realized, and it was kinda cute. He smirked down at her.  
  
"I figured out what's wrong with me," he said, absent-mindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear (she had this little piece that wasn't as short as her bangs were but not quite as long as the rest of her hair that always fell in her eyes .. ).  
  
"Oh?" She waved his hand away from her face, "Do tell, so I can find a cure. My brother's going to shred you into itty bitty pieces with flagpoles stuck in them once he wakes up."  
  
"Thanks for the visual," he said dryly, "And my attraction to you is .. just that. Lust. It'll pass."  
  
"What?!" She shrieked, reaching out a manicured hand to grab him roughly by the ear, "That's IT? Lust? You nearly got us both killed because you're a hormonal teenage boy?!"  
  
"You were expecting a proclamation of love?" He quipped, and then winced, "Ow! Weasley, that hurts!"  
  
"It's meant to hurt," she snapped, yanking harder, "You .. are the most .. egotistical .. selfish .." she struggled for more words, "WEIRD bastard I have EVER met in my entire life, and I've met a lot of weird bastards!" She stamped her combat booted foot, hard, down onto his Italian-shoed one and stormed down the hall to where her brother's prone, crumpled form lay.  
  
Draco swore, none too quietly, but just leaned over slightly, waiting for the pain to subside. What a sweet, even-tempered little wench she is, he thought wryly, rubbing his aching ear. After a moment, he straighened and continued down the hall.  
  
Lust. That's all it was .. this was something he understood. Draco Malfoy smiled.  
  
He had an appointment to attend to.  
  
--  
  
Two hours later, Ginny and Cherie were seated on Ginny's bed. Cherie always somehow got into the Gryffindor tower, whether by flirting with a socially inept fourth year or just plain buying her way in. Cherie was braiding Ginny's hair.  
  
"So you're saying .. Draco Malfoy .. wants in your pants?" Cherie repeated slowly after her friend, pausing as she pulled a lock of Ginny's red hair into the French braid, sounding incredulous.  
  
"I know, it's too bizarre. I think he's been dipping into Snape's potions supply. Ow!" Ginny winced a little as Cherie accidentally tugged a short, fine strand at the base of her hairline.   
  
"Sorry," Cherie apologized, smoothing down the errand piece and continuing, "So what did Ron do once he woke up?"  
  
"I told him that Malfoy fell on me in a weird way because Peeves tripped him," Ginny snickered, "I don't think he believed me completely, but it's better than thinking that Malfoy and I were .. snogging."  
  
"You and your English lingo," Cherie teased, tying the braid (she'd laced it with strands of gold thread that made Ginny's hair seem more subdued), "So .. was Draco a good kisser?"  
  
"Cherie!" Ginny squealed, turning around and nearly whipping her friend in the face with the newly-tied braid, "How can you ask that?!"  
  
"Well?" Her friend grinned, "Was he?"  
  
Ginny gave a pause and nodded, going slightly pink in the cheeks.  
  
"Ooooooh!" Cherie clapped her hands together, but her cheer was short-lived -- she'd glanced at the silver watch she wore, "Tonya should be getting back from detention any minute now .. what do you think she had to do?"  
  
"I dunno," Ginny shrugged, "Hopefully nothing wretched, or Harry will have hell with her at practice." Tonya was a very talented Keeper, and Harry, as team captain, was having trouble getting used to the pretty, but extremely moody fourth year's sudden attitude changes.  
  
"Speaking of Wonder Boy, how is he?" Cherie changed the subject. She wasn't very fond of Quidditch.  
  
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Ginny retorted. She and Harry had gone out for nearly four months last term, but their relationship had ended shortly after the beginning of summer. Harry was uncomfortable with the way Ginny behaved -- slightly wild, and in the last few weeks of school, she'd began to explore her options with clothes and make-up a little more. Much to the surprise of the majority of Hogwarts, Ginny was .. cute.   
  
"Because he's afraid of me. I called him Wonder Dick once."  
  
"I remember. Anyway, I'm sure he's fine. He's all lovesick over some Ravenclaw, but she's on vacay so he's depressed."  
  
Cherie gave her a look.  
  
"Well, that's what Ron tells me," Ginny said hastily, moving her gaze from her friend's knowing blue-green eyes and to the ceiling.  
  
"Who's the Ravenclaw?" Again, Cherie changed the subject, although not by a lot this time.  
  
"She's a year below us .. brown hair, glasses, hazel eyes, cute. She's not much taller than I am. Don't know her name, though."  
  
"Tara Gray's best friend? Yeah, she seems like his type. I don't remember her name, either, though." Tara Gray was an extremely pretty and hot-tempered, black-haired Ravenclaw that would have been a sixth year this term, had she not disappeared over the summer. Everyone said Voldemort had done it, and the rumor was that he was going to make her his bride or something ridiculous like that. The more practical members of the Wizarding community figured he'd killed her or was keeping her as 'entertainment' for his followers.  
  
At that moment, Tonya came into the room, looking decidedly bewildered.  
  
"Hi, Ton," Ginny greeted, "Say, do you know the name of that Ravenclaw Harry's dating? The quiet girl with the glasses?"  
  
"Alissa Reed? Yeah .. but we can talk about that later. You'll never guess who just talked to me," Tonya said excitedly, sitting down by Cherie.  
  
And she began to tell them what had happened to her today in detention with Professor McGonagall and Draco Malfoy. 


	4. Boy Stalks Girl

Yes, the last chapter was short. I'm sorry. The song in this is the theme song my boyfriend gave me, heh, and it's also for Ginny and Cherie and Tonya, even though the song title is "American Girls". If anyone has any song recommendations for future reference, to set the mood of the fic, I'd appreciate it. Thanks to: stormyfire, m.white, Draco & Ginny forever!, and Ace of Spades (times two).  
  
---  
  
Holding a candle, right up to my hand  
Making me feel so incredible  
I wish it was anyone but me  
I could have been anyone, you see  
She has something breakable,  
Just under her skin  
- Counting Crows  
  
---  
  
Tonya stepped apprehensively into the detention hall, looking up at McGonagall. She'd been given detention for a few things; her skirt was too short, she should have been wearing robes to classes, and she was talking too much. Stupid; the girls in her year chattered more than she did with any of her friends in that class (all of whom were boys, which didn't ingratiate her with the girls any), but of course they were "normal" and thus allowed to do whatever they wanted. Girls who dared to take time with their appearance were considered snobs.  
  
McGonagall didn't smile at her but instead pointed to some scrubbing brushes and a pail of water on one of the desks.  
  
"I'll be by in an hour, and I expect you and Mister Malfoy to have cleaned every desk here by the time I return. Is that clear, Miss Jackson?"   
  
Tonya, inwardly struck dumb at the idea of Malfoy cleaning anything, much less with a muggle-born girl like her, just nodded mutely. She cast her gaze around the room as if expecting Malfoy to leap at her, scrub-brush in hand. Instead she saw him sitting atop a desk in the back, shadows pooling in the hollows of his eyes and cheeks. He looked rather menacing, but she wasn't one to be intimidated.  
  
He rose from his seat, studying Tonya. Tall, several inches above him (especially in her high heels), slender all over and thinly muscled, dark eyes and dyed, honey-blonde hair in many many little braids. Pretty, with maple syrup skin and an aloof air about her--she was the remote one of the little clique she hung out with, the Brains. Cherie was the Beauty and Ginny was the Heart. It made sense; none of the girls lacked in those three categories, but they all had their specialties.  
  
"Take a picture," she snapped, and he smirked. Bratty, too, although he didn't blame her.  
  
"Tell you what," he said in a smooth voice, "I'll get someone in here to take care of this for you, if you'll do something for me."  
  
"For *me*? If I recall correctly, you have detention as well. What are you asking of me?" She kept her tone guarded, narrowing her eyes at him.  
  
"I want you to answer a few questions for me about a friend of yours .. Crabbe and Goyle will do the work."   
  
"No," she said simply.  
  
"No?" He looked taken aback. He hadn't expected her to say no. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean no. Crabbe and Goyle are wastes of skin, and seriously lacking in brainpower to boot. I don't feel like letting them fuck this up for me."  
  
"They're not stupid enough to mess up on menial tasks like this," he said, carelessly indicating the scrub-brushes, "Anyway, I still have questions to ask you."  
  
"How much gold you got on you?" She narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes at his robes' pockets.  
  
"What -- no!" He began to shake his head. This was going all wrong .. why couldn't he have had detention with Cherie? At least he understood how she *worked* to some extent, they were in the same house ..  
  
"I want ten gold or you get no info." He sighed and reluctantly dug the appropriate coinage out of his robes' pocket. She reached out to take them from them, but he snapped his hand back suddenly.  
  
"Five now, five once you tell me what I need to know."  
  
"Fine!" She snapped, growing frustrated. He allowed her to take five of the coins and put them into the pocket of her frayed, denim miniskirt. He couldn't help but notice the long legs under the skirt, but quickly moved his gaze back up to her face.  
  
"Now," he said amiably, "Have a seat."   
  
She stared at him.  
  
"If you're going to be uncooperative, you can just forget the rest of that gold."  
  
She gave an unladylike grunt and sat down in a much more girlish way, crossing her legs and folding her arms neatly over her chest.   
  
'Shoot," she said.  
  
"'Shoot'?"  
  
"Ask your fucking questions already."  
  
"Oh," he nodded slightly, smirking over at her and drawing himself slightly out of the shadows so that she could meet his eyes as they spoke, "Well, you're close friends with Ginny Weasley and Cherie Sanford, correct?"   
  
She gave the slightest inclination of her head, assuming he was out to maim Ginny or seduce Cherie. Either one wouldn't be anything new.  
  
"I'm curious about Weasley. First and foremost, why is she friends with a Slytherin? I thought you Gryffs couldn't tolerate anyone who had an actual sense of self-worth."  
  
"First and foremost," she began, acid creeping into her tone, "Our perception of self-worth is clearly different from Slytherins, whose social hierarchy is mostly composed of ass-kissers and complete fucktards. She's friends with Cherie because Cherie has something of an understanding of morals, or at least she does a good job pretending it. And Ginny believes in chances, I guess."  
  
Most of what she had said had brushed by him, simply because he'd heard it all before and it never really managed to enter his sphere of thought, but the last bit was interesting.  
  
"Chances? Really?"  
  
"Mm." Tonya nodded. "She's so idealistic it could make your teeth hurt."  
  
"But, you all, she's so .. " He trailed off, unsure as to how to phrase his thoughts in a way that wouldn't get him kicked in the groin.  
  
"Some of the most idealistic people are the ones who seem like badasses. She's got reason to be cynical, but she still believes in people."  
  
"What happened to her leg? She's got a brand on it of some kind."  
  
Tonya blinked at him, dark eyes slightly perplexed.  
  
"A brand? I don't -- shit .. I knew she'd .. I didn't know he branded her .. "  
  
"He?" Draco was getting a little bit concerned. He leaned forward on his perch so he could meet her eyes and read the emotions flickering though them, brief flashes of light in those almost-black irises.  
  
"She's had a few boyfriends .. some of them have been .." She shrugged one shoulder as if to say, 'out of the ordinary.'  
  
"Was it Potter?" He queried, pulling himself to a stand. As soon as he asked, he knew he shouldn't have. She whipped her blonde braids out of her face and stood up, too, glaring down at him from her almighty two inches of extra height.  
  
"No, you lunatic," she said acerbically, "It was not Harry Potter, much as I'm sure that would please your warped little brain. What the hell do you want with Ginny, anyway?"  
  
He honestly had been wondering that himself. He looked at this brilliant, dark, vicious girl with her designer clothes, nose ring, and verbose way of speaking and wondered what he wanted with Ginny Weasley. The words came unbidden, out of nowhere, oddly accurate but still unwanted.  
  
"I want to know her. Really know her, see how she works."  
  
The stare Tonya gave him was measuring, still icy but a little less brazenly malicious.   
  
"Alright," she said after a moment, "Now give me my five gold."  
  
He assented, placing the coins in her hand. She tucked them into her other skirt pocket and squinted down at him.  
  
"Think McGonagall will go ape if I leave?"  
  
"Probably," he nodded, "Are you going to anyway?"  
  
"Yeah."   
  
With that, she moved through the door, shutting it behind her quietly and casting a wary look around for McGonagall. Soft footsteps carried her through the halls and away from the boy who was simultaneously so very pale and so very dark, all at once. 


End file.
